


And the world ends with us.

by Pinkviscera



Category: Far Cry (Video Games), Far Cry 5
Genre: Abuse, Apocalypse, Asphyxiation, Coercion, Confinement, Cunnilingus, Eventual Smut, F/M, Face-Fucking, Imprisonment, Kitchen Sex, Masochism, Mental Abuse, Mental Anguish, Mental Coercion, Mental Instability, Mentions of Deputy/Jacob Seed, Mentions of Deputy/John Seed, Mentions of past drug use, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Non-Consensual Touching, Nuclear end, Physical Abuse, Rough Sex, Slow Burn, Stockholm Syndrome, Thriller, Torture, Unhealthy Relationships, Vaginal Fingering, Vaginal Sex, and im covering my ass, forced religion, its gonna take forever to get to smut im sorry its gotta be set riIIIGHT THO, masochistic deputy, mention of child death, theres a gun and theres fear peeing idk fair warning, this is not going to be a happy story, what do you call the thing where you fear pee
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-04-18
Updated: 2018-08-06
Packaged: 2019-04-24 19:36:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,678
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14362185
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pinkviscera/pseuds/Pinkviscera
Summary: He saved you and you don't know why. In the bunker you watch Joseph Seed keep you alive, pray, and force a bond between the two of you. After so long, with only the two of you left, how can you not break? How can you not desire company? Days, months, and years pass and you are forced to come to terms with the situation.How can you not learn to love what he gives you when everything else has turned to ashes?How much can you hate before you tire yourself out?





	1. Where we begin

**Author's Note:**

> This story isn't going to be romance and roses, especially with how the Nuclear end goes and how Joseph ends up. Working on the second chapter between work so enjoy this one for now!

You’ve been quiet for so long your throat feels tight when you finally swallow down the disbelief of your situation. The destruction on the surface are echos and shakes down to where you reside with Joseph Seed. The metal of the cuffs bite into your skin from your limp posture. You just want to rest, for one fucking minute, just to sit and not have a crisis while the world falls apart. You know that’s literally not possible anymore, no matter how hard you try to imagine a different outcome. Trapped; you are trapped in this bunker with the very man who you’ve been fighting against all this time.

Joseph’s humming is a constant background noise. He hasn't stopped since he dragged you down here. Part of you wonders if you’d have preferred being left to fend for yourself amidst the world’s ruins. You wouldn't have to hear any more fucking hymns at the very least. Maybe he’s waiting for you to talk, for you to admit he was right? Like he hadn't rubbed it in enough when you’d come to. He’d said pride was your sin, but that seemed to be the pot calling the kettle black. Hypocrite stalls on your tongue, but you find there’s no point in antagonising a man with nothing left.

‘I was right.’ it echoes in your mind and taunts you, every time you glance his way, you see each scar written out over his body. You want to rip the skin off, just like John did to Nick, nail each sin to the fucking walls, watch as he bleeds out and writhes. You try to ignore the sin tattooed onto your own chest. It’s not who you are, none of this proves John or Jacob right, nothing they said about you was right. You are not meat, you’re not sin, you are a person. You’re a person.

The sound of his humming becomes louder, closer, but you refuse to open your eyes to him. The cold metal of the bed frame soothed your warring mind slightly, but his version of Amazing Grace was grating your last nerve. You crack your eyes open to watch him move the chair closer to you, holding two cans of food, dinner you guessed. Looked like beans or spaghetti, either way they all taste the same. The rosary hung around his arm, wrapped like a snake around him. Does it bring him peace even now? You close your eyes again, recalled the story of his daughter, and a new wave of disgust for him washes over you. You want nothing from him. You open your eyes only to give him a narrow eyed glare.

“Time for dinner,” he sighs reaching to place the cans and utensil down on the bedside table away from him, then leaning forward to clasp his hands together in, what you could assume, was prayer. “I’ll say grace this time, but one day I expect you to join.” You stare at him.

“Heavenly Father, We have gathered to share-”    
“Are you serious right now?” Your laugh cuts off his prayer, your eyes wide and a smile of incredibility on your bruised lips. You were sore from the fight, bruised and healing, but alive. Alive enough to laugh in Joseph Seed’s stone like face. “God ends the world and you’re saying grace?” he stares at you, eyes digging holes into you, but you laugh to yourself anyway, shaking your head and leaning on the bed frame for support. There’s no humour in your laugh or joy in your smile. It’s mocking, you know, but what else is there to say to a man praying to a God that ended the world?  

“I warned you, I told you what would happen, you didn't listen-”   
“You weren't meant to be right!” your voice is raw, angry, all frustration and it silences the bunker. The echoes of destruction and your harsh breathing is all that fills the silence. You hear Joseph inhale through his nose, his jaw ticking from tension, and you are suddenly very aware of how easy it would be for him to hurt you. Hands bound and left on the floor, you're not exactly in a good place to defend yourself. His eyes sear into you and you look right back at him. Bravery is all you have left.

“John was right, wrath is your sin, but so is pride.” he spits out through his teeth, the bruises under his eyes giving him a darker look than you’re used to. Your lip curls back in a snarl, if he wanted you to be wrath then maybe you’d show it.

“John was a sadistic, lying, greedy, fucked up-” his hand wraps around your neck before you can even finish the thought. Whatever you were going to say comes only as a cough and whimper. Finally the Father is angry, you find a small victory in that, but his face would say otherwise. You didn’t think he’d be so strong, there were times when he guided you to stand by the neck or held your face, but this was nothing nurturing. This hurt. Muscles in your throat ache, breathing coming shallow if at all. His blue eyes looking down at you like the lowly snake he thought you were, but you werent the one choking the life out of him, not this time. 

The world seems to dim at the edges, shallow breaths become choked ones, fire of rebellion becomes desperation as tears appear in your eyes. Fear hits you, after all you’ve been through to die now? Bound and beaten? It terrifies you. His thumbs dig into your throat, nails biting into skin, but it eases as he blinks down at you. Those glazed eyes filled with anger soothe gradually and he lunges back into the chair, hands letting go of you as you cough and splutter for air. You bend over, hacking and drawing in breath, tears trailing down your cheeks. Breathing hurts. Seed looks horrified at himself, his hands held out in front of him as if they weren't apart of his body. Blue eyes trace across the scar of wrath on his left wrist. He has done enough. Even if he knows he could kill you that’s not what God wants, despite how much Joseph wants it. 

He looks up from his scars to see you trembling, head pressed against the bed frame, refusing to look at him. Even in Jacob’s cages he’d not seen you looking so weak. Hopped up on Bliss, or being baptized by John he’d always seen that fire, the hell that was always destined to follow behind that Whitehorse in his dreams. Like this, though? He saw a human; someone he could guide. His left hand twitched, pulses of anger still coursing through his body, but instead of a fist he places his hand atop your head to pet your hair. You flinch expecting more violence, but he just keeps his hand there, you don’t know if he’s trying to be comforting or intimidating. You can’t deny him, you can’t fight back, you can only brace yourself for what he does. You fucking hate it. You’re essentially a chained animal, hoping your owner isn’t as cruel as he could be. You scowl at yourself for the metaphor. Owner? Fuck that idea, he may think of himself as a Father, but you knew he’d be dead as soon as those cuffs were off. 

He leans closer to you cutting off any of your thoughts, adrenaline spiking in your veins as you see the aqua flecks in his eyes, he’s too close, far too close. Since coming down here his eyes seem to have lost any softness they once held, the intensity frays your edges. 

“You’d do best to not speak of things you don’t understand, Deputy.” His voice hangs in the air, even your breathing is quiet as to not set off the hair trigger Joseph is proving to be. Each of his siblings’ faces cross your mind, everyone of their deaths, all your fault. How much patience is left in this man? Especially now that the two of you are, possibly, the last two people left alive you don’t know how far he’ll go to keep you under his thumb. You don’t feel like a force of hell, an anti-christ, or the demon Joseph always said you’d be in his prophecy, but you do feel like a deer in the headlights. You nod, your pride holding your tongue. It’s good enough for him. Joseph leans over to pick up a can of food, peels the ring lid off and feeds you. 

It’s embarrassing, he calls it humbling, much to your annoyance. You’re pretty sure there are bruises swelling around your neck from Joseph’s flickering glances down. Just push back all the shame, the pain, and eat, you tell yourself; just survive, your time will come and so will his.

 

When he scrapes the bottom of the can and gives you the last bite you don’t know if you should say thank you or fuck you. You settle on silence and chew the cold food. Part of you wonders if he knows how to use the microwave, but maybe he’s giving you the rough treatment till you fall in line? Warm food would have been too much kindness perhaps. You swallow and shake your head at the unpleasant slimy feeling of cold canned beans clogging your throat, so thick and sweet, you suck on your tongue to distract yourself from thinking about how _ that’s _ what you’ve got to eat for...years? Decades?

You shift as Joseph stands to discard the rubbish after realizing he’s not going to receive any acknowledgement from you. He gathers the other can on the bedside, deciding eating with you isn't the best idea. It’s too soon, he can’t expect leaps in hours, not when trauma is fresh; on both sides, he reminds himself. He expects to build trust, this bond that was always meant to happen, into something both of you can manage. At least he hopes. He clangs the spoon into the empty tin with an air of exhaustion. He’s fed up with the day, how he wished it wouldn’t come, sought out different alternatives to this end. Joseph may have been right, but he doesn't look like a man who’s won anything. He stands to make his way to the kitchen.    
“How...long?” You ask. He stills at the doorway.

You have to ask, you have to know, how long are you going to have to wait till...well, freedom or death, one or the other. You grind your teeth looking at his scarred back. He sighs, closes his eyes and recalls the dreams, all the things he’s been told, and finds his burden feeling heavier with your expectant eyes on his back.

_ I was chosen _ . He didn't have a choice. Who would have chose this? 

“Seven angels bring hell to earth, seven years for angels to walk the earth once again,” he recites, the words feel so familiar he’d swear they were tattooed on his tongue “Seven years, Deputy, to attone and learn. See if you can temper that gift God has graced you with, but by God you will enter Eden’s gate in seven years. We’re God’s angels; of rebirth,” he turns to look over his shoulder, dark eyes set on you “And destruction. But an angel nonetheless. The Lord giveth...and the Lord taketh away.” 

You pale.

“Seven fucking years?” you feel your voice crack, your stomach feeling as if it just dropped, fear chokes you. Is there enough supplies? Water? Joseph Seed and you alone for seven years. Your heart skips a beat and beats harder for it, you feel it in your throat. Joseph leaves you to your state. 

Panic, worry, and a nausea hits you. Years in this hole. No sunlight, no greenery. Possible starvation or dehydration. Closing your eyes you try to swipe your thoughts clear. Don’t think about it. Not about death, not about pain, or torture, think of the good things. Good things, come on. Drinking with Jerome and Mary at the Spread Eagle.  _ You never got to say goodbye to them _ . Seeing Nick and Kim stand up to the Peggies.  _ Kim was pregnant, Nick could have been a father, did they get to see each other before the end? _ Saving Boomer from that cage, his fur against your hands as you hugged him.  _ He’s dead, they’re dead, they’re all dead.  _ Whitehorse, Hudson, and Pratt, saving them from the Seed siblings. _ If you’d have been looking at the road would you have seen the tree falling? Would you have been able to save them? Did you kill them in the end? _

You smell the heady scent of burning, ashes, coating your skin and clothes. Sweat cools on your body, makes the fabric stick to you, cold and cloying. The air feels stale, your eyes ache with weariness, muscles untense and your body lets go of the fight or flight stress. You essentially collapse onto the wall behind you, closing your eyes and praying to whatever can hear you, begging for sleep. 

 

“Welcome to the Bliss.” 

“The power of yes.”

“Hunt, sacrifice, kill!”

 

Snapping awake you slam your head onto the bunk bed frame. You scramble, falling out the sheets into a tangle on the carpeted floor. You hear Grace laugh at you from above. Snipers and their heights, always top bunk. It was a nightmare, just a nightmare, a real shitty one at that. 

“Rise and shine, Sleeping beauty.” Grace’s face appears, peering over the edge. She looks smug, humour playing over her features. You smile up at her. Smug looked good on her. 

“If you can’t handle blankets how the hell have you managed Peggies?” she’s teases you as you sit up and rub the sleep from your eyes.

“Fuck if I know, maybe God guides the bullets? If he does he needs to send less my way.” Grace scoffs, but she knows it’s true. You’re gathering more and more scars; gunshot wounds, getting scraped by hunter’s arrows, Judge bite marks, and at least one shrapnel scar from being too close to an explosive Peggie wreck. You roll your shoulder to loosen the tension gathering there. Once this was over you were getting a massage, you felt like a wind up toy, wound up way too tight and ready to pop your gears at any second. 

“You haven’t had that many with me,” Grace’s voice wavers and you think you’re hearing things. Frowning you rub your head trying to feel for lumps. It wasn't that bad of a fall, was it? “I’m pretty sure everyone else got the more fucked up deal than you.” Her voice echoes and you know this isn't right. You can’t be in the Bliss again, God, not again. But no, there’s no white lights behind your eyes or hazes, you look at Grace above you and you see her glazed dead eyes, her body limp and half hanging from the bed. The shock has you gasping for air, you want to scream, you want to shove yourself against the opposite wall and scream till someone tells you this isn't real. But instead of moving you’re falling. There’s no floor, no support, there’s nothing for you. 

The smell of grass smacks you awake. Blades of it tickle your face, grass stains wet on your knees and elbows. Nature speaks out around you, birds, cows, all of Montana’s wildlife is alive. Getting up is easier, breathing is easier, the air tastes sweet and you can’t ignore the blue skies above you. Is this even real? How would you know? 

You run. Slowly the wilds begin to make sense, you recognise road signs and landmarks, farmland and settlements, each bring back memories, few good. Though there are animals you see no people. No matter how loud you scream or shout for attention all that seems bothered by your voice is a flock of birds that take off at the threat of danger. The world feels empty, even if it’s alive. When you see the church you wonder why you’re even here. It smells like wet earth, and hints of Bliss flowers. You want to retch, but your stomach refuses to put the effort into it, you’re too busy trying to gain your breath back. The water is serene, leaves fall from the trees onto the water’s surface and cluster to the banks of the lake. A breeze blows right through you, chilling you to the bone, sweat turning cold on your skin. A shiver runs up your spine. 

“And when the lamb breaks the last seal...” the voice carries on the breeze and it shakes your core. Light blinds you, then the sound of destruction hits, even with your arm moving to defend your face you find it useless to hide against the inevitable. You look to see the swell of the mushroom cloud across the hills. Just like before, this is happening again. A hand grips your shoulder, you’re unsurprised to see Joseph looking down at you, free of bruises and eyes softer than you’ve ever seen them. Their blue rivals the, once, clear sky, but now the heaven’s have been dyed grey and orange, sending shadows over everything and the glow of embers over whatever's left. Hellfire. The oncoming wave of force brings a flutter of Bliss petals, brushing past your cheeks as the mushroom cloud spreads more each second you stand there. You’d forgotten Joseph’s hand on you. Forgotten his presence in all the chaos spreading around you. It’s always around you. Before you can choke on the smoke and flames his hand comes up to your eyes, and he blocks out all the carnage from view. You can hear the scatter of the falling debris, crackling of fire, practically suffocate on the plumage of smoke billowing from the ruined church of Eden’s Gate. It chokes you. 

 

It chokes you awake into a coughing fit. Each hack wracks your weak body, you’re pretty sure there’s grey phlegm staining the floor once you spit, the taste of ashes lingers at the back of your tongue no matter how much you saliva you spit out. A hand holds your head up and you taste water, as soon as you recognise it you take greedy mouthfuls and choke them down. Droplets slip from your mouth to soak your shirt collar, something that will feel uncomfortable later, but the soothing cold of the liquid is your main concern. The second would be Joseph Seed’s hand resting in your sweat soaked hair to tip you upwards to drink. You don’t take issue with it in the moment, only when you’ve taken your fill and lean back yourself do you take in his position. He’s leaning over you, if he’d tilted that water a little higher he’d have probably waterboarded you instead. You note how he didnt. It shouldn't make you trust him, but what other comfort do you have to calm you? You watch him with wet eyes, from strain rather than emotion, you won’t cry in front of him. 

“It’s my fault, isn’t it?” 

His hand moves to stroke down your face, sweat slicked hair pushed from your face as he watches your expression. 

“The lamb does what the shepherd commands. He knew what you would do. You were not here by chance or coincidence.” His skin on yours has your body relaxing, eyes lulling closed. His words bring nothing to the war inside you. There’s only more questions.

“Are you the shepherd or is God?” 

Joseph remains quiet, his thumb wiping away a bead of sweat on your cheek, he realises how much he has to teach you. He doesn't know if it’s pity or excitement that has him smiling, but smile at you he does. You don’t see it, you see no warning signs. 

“You’ll learn the difference, my child.” 

 


	2. Discipline and consequence.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Weeks have passed and anger only builds, breaks and tears at your insides till you want to hurt everyone else around you. Joseph feels the crushing, ineffective routine destroying his faith. There's only so much one man can take.   
> Who breaks first and who crushes the other under their thumb is the gamble you play, even if neither of you will ever admit it. Even God made a bet, but the Devil will have her dues.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Im so sorry everyone its taken me forever to get to this, ive been in and out of hospital, moved back to my home town, lost my beta reader, a LOT.   
> Heres a big chapter to make up for the lack of updates. They're gonna be possibly weekly now that Im settled again.   
> ive been editing for 6 hours im gonna go pass out now enjoy!!

“Just let me shower.” It’s the sixth time you've said it this week. You’re not begging yet, but you fear you aren't far from it if you get a whiff of your own odour again. It’s more than the smell of burning; you feel like you're decaying in your own filth. This is punishment, without a doubt, it has to be revenge. You feel worse every second you sit there. Dried sweat rubs on your skin, the taste of your last meal on your tongue, oily hair determined to brush your face and add to the unpleasant mask of oils and dried skin. He’s not let you use the restroom either. Gives you a bedpan and expects you to be thankful you’re not pissing yourself probably. Fuck it. Life being hunted was easier than this ‘safety’.

Joseph knows what he’s doing, loathe as he is to do it, but he does regardless. It’s not like he hasn't taken care of people before, like any of this is new to him, so it’s returning to an old ritual he thought he’d forgotten. Helping the helpless. He’s a carer again, helping on the wards, just helping. He remembers Jacob’s methods, deprivation to motivate cooperation. He battles with his thoughts, ponders the difference between this feeling of caring against the reality of what he’s really doing; refusing you. Refusing you movement, freedom, even pride, the simplest action of pissing in private is lost to you and he chalks this up to brotherly wisdom, of a sort. In his brother’s absence he fears he must do what Jacob cannot. It occurred to him, in his times of prayer, that maybe he was meant to learn from his siblings’ demons. Be prepared to inflict the sin, but be mindful of the vices that gripped each Seed, avoid withering at the root himself. It doesn't take away his bitterness, but makes it sweet enough to swallow. Medicine always was bitter, he repeats this to himself, affirming the spiral of his temper; his demons having embraced the lack of judging eyes or questioning words showed in blotches of purple and blue on your skin. A harsh grip to force your bowed head lower, a hand twisting the skin of your arm, displeased eyes gazing down at you bored; the same shows of defiance. ‘Hands together for prayer, Deputy’ he’d lost count of how many times he’d told you.  
“You’ll be clean when you’re ready for it.” Joseph says, his hands playing with the radio tuner. He’s trying to find a signal, a sign of life, a human voice. There has to be more angels to walk the earth, it can’t just be the two of you. He keeps trying, but government automated broadcasts are all that he can tune into. Even they time out now and again. The fake, polite voice brings him nothing but rage. He’s focused on the future while you’re suffering in the now.  
Ready? You’ve been ready to get cleaned up since before being in the bunker for fuck’s sake. Montana mud wasn't magical, it didn't fucking melt off, much to your chargin.  
“And what do-”  
“Hush!” he barks at you, static voices coming from the radio. You simply roll your eyes and wait for them to die out, as they normally do, to carry on,   
“What do I have to do? What exactly do you want me to do so I’m ready to shower?”   
Joseph stops his tampering and turns to face you. His bruises have faded. He’s almost back to his original self, if you overlook the slightly askew nose you’d smacked with a well timed snap of a rifle’s stock. How good that had felt, that last fight, definitely was the last one you had on equal ground anyway. Joseph takes in your image, dirtied and worn down, and he debates if Faith or John would be the best type of mentor.  
“Join me in a prayer.” He gestures, opening his arms in a half shrug, half inviting motion. He smiles. It unnerves you, makes your blood run cold, but you keep a steady gaze on him.   
“Just pray?” You don’t trust that easy, and especially not with him. You have been ‘praying’. Been forced to kneel and ask for forgiveness you didn't need. Joseph laughs, more a scoff, before dragging the folding chair towards you, sitting and leaning close. You can smell the soap on him. The bastard. He’d cleaned up, got new clothes; a pair of jeans, a sleeveless t-shirt, all clean and prim. You see the shine of his teeth in the low lighting. It reminds you of the pearly whites John had flashed at you; like a shark preparing to tear you apart. Out of habit you clench your hands into fists, you aren't able to swing them freely, but it gives you the delusion of safety.   
“Just repeat after me, you do that? I’ll uncuff you and let you shower.”  
“Alone?”   
He laughs, bowing his head to indulge in the private joke, before looking back up at you with a sour smile, head shaking. You feel the urge to swipe a fist at his mocking smile. Honestly, no matter the look he’d gave you, you still wanted to beat him bloody.  
“I’m not that trusting yet, Deputy. But don’t worry, I’m not about to find a sinner and murderer tempting. Adam bit the apple, not the snake.” You didn't expect insults, but with a shower on the line you carve a sardonic smile into your own face and grind your teeth. After you’re clean, then bite back. You’d bite back till you felt his fucking bones. You refuse to mention that Adam biting the snake would have saved the whole biblical torment that came after genesis, grinding your teeth you quell the desire to fabricate a useless argument.  
“Fine.” you concede. Let him have this one victory. 

He motions to your hands and you get the hint, bringing them together to signify prayer with a roll of your eyes, playing along to his dedicated charade.  
“Do you know any prayers, Deputy?” It’s a mix of genuine curiosity and, patronising intent, well, at least it feels like it. You lower your eyelids to level a glare at him. His own gaze doesn't waver, he’s used to your ire by now. You haven't been shy in showing it.  
“I thought I was repeating after you?” It’s clear you're not interesting in leading any sermon, so he concedes, sighing and clasping his own hands together in prayer, eyes closed to focus on the meaning behind the words.  
It’s a simple Hail Mary, nothing too long or complicated, popular enough to be rattled off easily. He says a line and pauses for you to repeat, and you do. Steadily, learning the basics, the rhythms of each line becoming like little songs you can’t help but remember in the painful silence of the present. As soon as the Amen slips from your lips you try to cast out any memory of the words you’d just parroted back at him, attempting to think of a song, of something you and your friends used to say, anything but the validation of Joseph’s tactics. Forget everything. Except Jerome’s words; instead of Seed’s, perhaps, Jerome’s would bring comfort, his were always far more warmer and sweeter than this force fed mentality Joseph was peddling. It was Ripe fruit compared to rotted, and you knew Joseph would continue to feed you more putrid things until you threw up the same bile as he preached. You clench your hands tighter together to vent some frustration at seeing his plan, but being unable to circumvent it. 

The sudden touch forces you to be awake in the present, your eyes snapping wide as his thumb harshly traces the sign of the cross to your forehead, as if the ashes and grime were perfect for a makeshift ash wednesday ceremony. His hand is solid even as you attempt to jerk back from him, but he merely corners you against the wall and mutters his own prayers, the pressure of his touch unforgiving, as if trying to break you through you. The back of your head grinds against the stone painfully. The instinct to flee verses Joseph’s oppressive hold, but there’s no running away from this. Fear blazes in you as he seems lost in his own world.  
Why does he have to touch you? Why does he have to be so fucking close? Why can’t he just let you go and leave you alone? Anger and fear curl like flames at the back of your throat, snarls rising your lip to flash fangs, but he only bows his head to apply more pressure, his thumb no doubt trying to leave impressions, more weight behind his ‘blessing’.  
“Stop it, for fucks sake!” You choke on any further words, surprised as he opens his eyes to look at you. If Joseph hadn't dragged you down there himself you’d have guessed he’d given up on you with those stoic, unsettling eyes. His calm intensity only adds fuel to your unrest and squirming. You reach for his arm within your limited, cuffed hands’ range. Metal bites into your skin, but your nails latch into his forearm, digging in to inked skin. His muscles tense, but he remains, mostly, unmoved. Instead he speaks up, never looking away from your own darting, wide eyes, desperate to find an escape.   
“God, May she control her demons, may wrath leave her and peace fill her soul, take her in to your heart, Lord, and grace us with the strength to persevere this darkness,” He hisses through his teeth, and through the pain of your nails piercing his skin “And if you won’t give her strength, if she refuses your light, give me the strength and patience to guide her through, and rip the demons from her in your name, Lord.” He practically spits at you before slamming your head to the wall and standing back to look down on you and survey the damage on his arm. “Memento, homo, quia pulvis es, et in pulverem reverteris.” he murmurs, attempting to shake out the pain from the gouges in his arm. You spy a smudge of blood and despite your rattled mind you find comfort in the fact he’s suffering. You find yourself praying they get infected, that they fester, and he suffers even longer than you will. That’s the only prayer you’ll ever make sincerely. You know they won’t thanks to the infirmary opposite, but hope is all you have left and heaven help you if that crumbles to ash too.

Squeezing your eyes shut to centre yourself once more you hear Joseph’s footsteps, the slam of the infirmary door, noises as he clatters around to finds things. You remember the sin of wrath carved into his arm and find yourself laughing.If not for laughter there’d be tears, you find no reason to give him the satisfaction, so you giggle even if your heart isn't in it. You wonder if he’d be decorated with a few more sins by the end of this ‘hibernation’. Playing this back and forth game was becoming tiring, but if it meant being able to score a few more gouges into the saviours skin, then perhaps you’d keep dancing along. A few more scars wouldn't change the landscape of his body much anyway. A trading of injuries, at least, meant you got to strike back a few times. Perhaps that was all you wanted, going out fighting, but you’d decide later when your head didn't throb and ache after being ground into a fucking wall like mince meat.  
“I thought part of the whole religion thing was consent, y’know,” you wheeze, a wisp of forced laughter in your tone. “Choosing to be saved, choosing to believe, makes the whole thing more,” you laugh shaking off the throbbing pain, “I don't know, rewarding? more rewarding than being forced anyway.” You listen for him, for where he moves, recall how you’d walked through Dutch’s bunker in a fresh daze the first day you woke up here, after the crash, after the call for the Reaping. You remember so much. 

You could have been talking to yourself for all the responses you got, but you were not, Joseph was listening. Through gritted teeth, as he disinfects your claw marks in the infirmary he lets your taunts sink in like the alcohol in his cuts. Both sting, but they’re shallow enough, however considering what could be under your nails he refuses to chance an infection, not down there where septicaemia could end this parable short. He remembers all the times he’s been lectured by men of equal faith with words akin to yours, by non-believers who fired him from job after job, how he’d forced this on people. Forced salvation, he reminds himself, is still salvation.   
He takes a moment to look down at his arm, then the grey cracked concrete wall in front of him, your heavy breathing in the single bedroom in sync with his own deep breathing. He knocks himself out of the stray thoughts, makes work at binding gauze to his cuts, and walks back towards the workshop, one room along. Removing the keys from his pocket to unlock the door he silently scolds himself at his lingering thought. God had given him a chance, had dubbed him the Noah of this tale and yet...he had wondered if this was hell, his own personal purgatory for his sins, for not saving his flock. It ate at him as he entered the room that reeked of stale woodchips.

His hands trace the guns mounted on the walls and there’s an unrest inside him that taunts him to pick one, just pick one up and end the cycle of hate that you’ve created; end the sin at the root so that you don’t poison his garden, not any more. His scarred hands choose a pistol, inspecting it for ammo before taking his time to load it. He blows on the magazine before jamming it in and pulling back the slide to chamber the ammo. The calluses on his hands remind him of Jacob, the room reminds him of Jacob, the gun resting in his hands reminds him so much of Jacob. In the end Jacob was the one who’d caged you, managed to get you to obey, allowed Joseph to talk with you face to face; share his past sins with you. He raises the gun to the shabby light and stares at the shine on the muzzle. In the low lighting his blue eyes carry shadow, shadows that he hasn't indulged happily in years. Bringing the gun back to himself he cocks it and flicks on the safety, then placing it into the side of his jeans. 

Illuminated in the lamp light he lets himself pray, down on his knees, and leans his forehead on the counter. He begs for safety, kindness, and strength; to quell the demons whispering in the darkness, because, oh God, down here there is so much darkness and he is unprepared. So many things have burned, so many have been taken from him, and he isn’t prepared to lose any more. He rises from his knees and leaves the room. The sound of the lock his only amen.   
The keys jingling is an echo in the bunker that rivals the heartbeat raging in your ears. You know what room he went into, the only one you’ve seen that has a lock on it, and you know what’s stored in there. It feels like death is creeping closer with every minute he took in that workshop. Survival says fight, run, do anything, but common sense is telling you that you can’t do a fucking thing; not when you’re chained. Tied to a post like a dog about to be shot; put down, out of your misery, but it doesn't feel like you thought it would, this isn't the freedom you wanted, for fuck’s sake. It’s not like you’re one for common sense though.  
The first sharp tug on the cuffs makes you wince and bite into your lip, it hurts, but you yank your arms again, begging for the bed’s frame to bend or snap, begging for some mercy. Warmth slides down your arm, the smell of iron breaking through the other musks knocks you sick, but with some satisfaction you bend the frame slightly, but not before Joseph slams his boot down on your hands, crushing them into the crevice of the bed and reforming the metal frame of the bed.  
You scream. He took you by surprise; you were to focused, too aware of the gun Joseph would come back with to actually notice him creeping closer in your panic; and creep he did, made sure to sneak, as he heard banging around. He thought you might have gotten loose and were prying open lockers or finding a weapon, but you were still trapped and rebelling.

There had to be punishment and consequences; Jacob had done this right, loathe he is to indulge his own wrath. It doesn't stop him from grinding your digits further into the corners of the metal frame, hearing the warbled cries squeezed further out of you. When your scream dies a hoarse croak replaces it, you can’t breathe, you forget how, your face a mask of agony. You look up at him, all wide eyes and fear, because for a good minute you forget that tough act, you forget you’re meant to be strong. You remember fear though, seeing the butt of the pistol tucked into the side of Seed’s jeans, remember all those bullet wounds, Grace helping you dig out the shells, pressing her jacket to the holes to stem blood. You remember that fear ever so well.   
“Your mother ever tell you not to damage other people’s property, Deputy?” Joseph bites out, his eyebrows rising as if scolding a toddler who knows better. He lets his words settle, stretching out the tension, taking his time to observe your expression. He notes where your eyes dart to, makes an observation; that you still fear death, and he can’t blame you, but now knows what leverage to use when this gets worse. When you just can’t listen to him, won’t listen to him, that is.You’re the one making this difficult, have made this all far more difficult than it ever needed to be. Nevertheless, he intends to keep his promise, onward to Eden's Gate, even if you’re kicking and screaming all the way there.   
You find yourself mute, unsure of what to say, even as he removes his foot and releases your bruised and bloody hands. You curl up as tightly as possible, but with no way to cradle or guard your hands in the cramped angle you’re trapped in constant vulnerability, it’s useless to hide away. No respite for the wicked. Water gathers in your eyes and you do everything you can to stop it from spilling over into tears. The pain will fade, it’ll fade, it’ll heal, but Joseph winning this is a leap back for you. Despite your mental fortitude and rapid blinking the tears still spill down your cheeks, shaking damaged hands proving to be to much pain, all of it proving to be too much pain. The apocalypse is just too damn much. 

The skin around your knuckles is a mixture of white, broken skin and red blotches steadily swelling, blowing on the hot skin only adds more discomfort, but you don’t see what else you could do. A finger, you think, is broken, especially your middle right by the searing pain and the askew, unmovable, angle. When Joseph moves next you flinch, shoulders hunching to shield any strikes, but he moves to hold your hands in a vice, crushing your digits in his grip. Through your scream and the pain you don’t notice him unlocking your cuffs. You can hardly see through the blur of tears.  
With a quick shove and cruel pull he yanks your arms up way over your head, demonstrating your freedom from the cuffs, but not letting go. With eyes streaming tears you look up, forced to your knees, hands crushed together, you look like you’re praying to him. As the pain mounts to incomprehensible, once more, you gain back that bite.  
“Let go, you’re breaking them!” You can feel the rawness of your scream burn your throat, but Joseph only uses his other hand to slip the pistol from his jeans and level it at your face.   
“You’ll heal. Get up, now, we had a deal.” He promised a shower, he’s very aware of that, however he’s also aware he can’t take risks with you being loose. Joseph can’t explain the feeling when you struggle to your feet, head lowered and eyes glowering and looking between the grip on your hands to the barrel of the gun. He’s satisfied perhaps? After all, it’s not like your glares have amounted to anything, just empty defiance. But it makes a fire burn in his belly when those tears drip from your chin.   
“How am I meant to shower with broken fingers?” You spit, saliva spraying onto Joseph’s face, venomous hissing all you dare do, all you have the courage to do even. He doesn't react, just throws you towards the doorway, your shaky legs nearly sending you sprawling if not for the set of lockers to slam into. Everything aches and stings, you can feel the sweat beading on your brow from the exertion of it all so suddenly, everything is wet from your face to your body sweating; you feel like a drowned rat, a soon to be gone pest.   
“I wouldn't think of running Deputy, there’s nowhere to go. Everything’s locked down. We’re safe here.” Joseph snapped. His patience was running thinner after seeing how well you’d taken the consequences of your actions. Your lessons. 

You laugh, its tinged with a sob, but you laugh, shaking your head, a sniffle solidifying your pathetic image. Running? Twisting to face him you show a grimace of a smile, all anger and spite. What was he gonna do? Shoot you? You move backwards through the doorway, keeping eye contact all the way, each step a dare, though unsaid, was one that was made loud and clear. Joseph’s thumb moves the safety, the click as terrifying as the bombs above had been. Unsurprisingly the floor was cold on your bare feet, colder than where you’d been sitting for weeks, but with ice already in your veins from the safety clicking off, you don’t notice much else apart from your heartbeat and his expression. Your throat bobs as you swallow, dry mouth only feeling worse at the attempt to regain moisture. To call it a stand off would be optimistic. The sound of water running through pipes, the flickering buzz of one of the lamps, it was all so loud. You just wanted to get away from him.  
“This doesn't have to be hell, Deputy,” Joseph implores suddenly, some earnestness back in his tone, hope resurfacing, “I admit we have our differences, that’s natural, you killed my family, but I can...I have to work past that. If it was meant to be then that’s God’s will. We’re family now, and I don't care for repeating this after today,” Sweat gathers at the back of his neck, the air thick. You stare back at him, expression falling into a poker face despite the odds. It feels like hours, but only a minute passes. “I’d prefer to be humane, civil, for this duration, Deputy, but don’t mistake me I am capable of straightening out a child astray from the path.” Curious, you think, how he extends an olive branch with one hand but levels a gun in the other. You close your eyes, using a not broken finger to slick back stray hairs from your dirty face.  
“Shower first. Then we talk, Seed.”   
A few more seconds pass before Joseph lowers the gun slowly.  
“For the best I think, hard to talk about the future when you reek of death, child.” Joseph laughs, as if whispering to himself, you simply frown at the use of ‘child’ and nod your head towards the showers. Joseph follows brushes past you to lead you there.

“Go ahead,” You still stand there and glare at him in the doorway despite his encouragement. Joseph doesn't back down either. “By all rights the smartest idea to save water would be to shower together, but we are not, I’m giving you comfort over practicality. Don’t dismiss it, Deputy.” The tension is back briefly before you turn away from him to the shower heads. There’s a lump in your throat and a heat burning behind your face, but you remind yourself that pushing this opportunity away would mean weeks more of dirt and grime, more rotting away. You can’t take that. Your hands move slowly to pull the shirt over your head, hissing in pain at the crooked fingers plaguing you, but you manage with what bruised ones you have left. It hangs in your hand as you look over your torso, stained and scarred, but still all there, no missing parts. The reddened scars of newly healed flesh tease the edge of your vision, wrath, John’s parting gift, so to speak, finally healing well enough for the redness to fade; ready for the skin to turn to silver lines, evidence of a trauma in the past. The hand that appears in your peripheral vision makes you jump, your other hand moving to cover exposed flesh, but Joseph simply offers his hand again, stretching it out palm up and flexing his fingers.  
“They’ll need to be washed, unless you want to get dirty all over again?” Its soft encouragement, you hate it, but the softness is new, something you like better than the abuse. You place the sleeveless shirt in his hand and he returns to his guard post by the doorway. A few beats of hesitation more and you reach around to undo your bra, only to screech at the pain in your hands, head bowed and breath short you curse under your breath, again, and again, until your words turn to mumbled sobs.It feels like the weight on your shoulders just got heavier and you don’t know what to do. The hand you feel on your bare back sends every one of your hairs on end. You turn and lash out with your elbow, scathing Joseph with a look of nothing but disdain and hostility.  
“Don’t touch me!” The scream is so guttural that Joseph steps back instinctively as your voice reverberates around the room. He sees your shoulders rise and fall rapidly, breathing quick and shallow; he sees you panicking. His eyes scan your back, scars littered here and there, proof of the war between the two of you. Proof of your mettle and yet here you were crumbling.  
“It looked like you were struggling.” he defends himself, but you bare teeth and take no excuses.  
“I don’t care! Don’t touch me, I can do it myself.” Each word feels like a bite, anger, fear, embarrassment, and suspicion whirls inside to create an emotionally unstable cocktail that you don’t know how to handle or how to control. With the bra failure being too embarrassing you move your hands to the jeans, they're easier, undo them and let them slip off. Simple. You kick them away from the shower grids.

The basic plain white underwear you have aren't anything attractive, you're thankful for that despite Joseph’s reassurances. You’ve seen the carving of Lust on his pelvis and you have no desire to test it. Grace called them granny panties one night, she’d seen you getting dressed one morning, you remember her smile, so smug, even her words of ‘make sure you don’t die in those, nobody wants to meet God wearing grandma undies.’ Grace thought she was a riot. Testing the elastic you slip a bruising finger into the waistline and tug to reveal your hip before pausing. Fire burns in you, but it isn't anger, you wished it was. Shame makes your face red, your chest turning red from the shame of all this. Being watched, being monitored, there’s only so much someone can take. As your hands tremble you think you’ve found how much you can. Your lips tremble.  
“Please,” Joseph’s gaze falters from staring through you to the far wall, he draws you back into focus, his eyes moving up your frame, admiring your gnarled and deep battle scars, till he looks at the back of your head. The Hell that followed behind Whitehorse doesn't look like Hell anymore. It’s a cowed, hurt, bare woman, but the sight doesn't move him like he expects it to. “I need some new clothes, can you get some?”   
Undressing in front of him is far more difficult than you‘d ever admit. It feels so cold, clinical, but his eyes on your back make it like bile is burning the back of your throat.

Taking a large breath in and holding it you tug the other side down past your opposite hip, clutching the material just above your mound, stopping it from slipping down. Joseph stares, baby blue eyes intense as his thumb traces just underneath his shirt, feeling the soft scarred flesh of the Lust he carved himself, a self given creed. One he torturously reminds himself he should keep. He sighs, if not for her, then for himself he allows the moment of privacy.  
“I’m trusting you, Deputy...I’ll be back in a second.” Joseph resigned himself, swooping low to pick up the clothes you’d already shed and walking back to the common room. His footsteps felt like weights lifted off you every time they got quieter, further away. You didn't waste time in slipping the underwear down your legs and wrestling the bra off despite the pain,using your thumbs to yank it over your head violently, hair catching on a latch before tearing out a lock as you yanked and threw it against the wall in frustration, free from the hellish underwire. You were sure you’d gotten a rash underneath your breast from the lack of hygiene and so much goddamn sweating. Fuck sake, fuck it all. 

Making haste to twist the knob with the balls of your hands you finally have a shower. Your smile is cut short from the cold water washing over you, taking all the breath from your lungs in one sweep, but it didn't kill the inner joy of feeling the dirt and ashes slide off your body in streams.  
Reaching down for the generic labeled soap you ache and your bones creak, but it’s nothing that stops you from practically squirting half the bottle out on your hands and body, working a lather up as quick as possible. With a groan you throw your head back to cool the heat in your cheeks. You want to be done by the time he comes back, but, God, you could just stand there all day and night. Robbing you of your steady breathing or not, it felt good to feel skin and not a layer of grease, to be able to smell something other than body odour and piss. Your hands run over every crevice, not risking anything in case you had another three week waiting period before a decent wash. As your hands work your hair into a soapy mess you hear Joseph’s footsteps return, metal clanking along the hallway. The heat of your insides contrasted with the cold of the water was not inherently unpleasant, but knowing he was there made it all unpleasant, skin crawling something fierce you refuse to stop for him. Back at his original post he simply clears his throat to announce his return, but you did little to acknowledge him, simply paused in running a cautious hand through your hair for a half a second, the finger had numbed, much to your concern, but at least, in the heat of the moment, it allowed you to ignore the pain and get the job done.  
“You’re going to have to splinter my fingers, one’s broken.” It’s accusatory, harsh, but it doesn't faze Joseph. You want it to, want him to burn on the inside like you’re doing.  
“We can do that while we talk.” he shifts to lean against the wall, reaching around to throw the clean clothes on the bench. No matter what he does though he cannot stop his gaze from wandering, following the outline of your body under the spray, heat beginning in his own stomach, not the heat you wished he’d have, but certainly one he wished he didn't have.   
“You gonna break more of em’ if I don’t agree?” The soap smells of fresh laundry, like fresh cotton sheets on a washing line. Very generic. He sniffs at the overpowering smell of it, too much in the air compared to the compound’s selection of smells, too clean, rich. You mistake it for a scoff and narrow your eyes, but keep your back to him. Anger bubbles once more, fueled by the vulnerable states you’re sick of being in.  
“There’s been enough violence I think. Time for us to start becoming a...family. That was the intention of all this afterall.”   
You stop dead, soap suds slipping down your back from your hair, slithering down your leg. 

This talk suddenly seems far more intimidating, and being nude does not help your authority.  
“You expecting me to convert? Become your child? Or adopt me like Faith?” It’s your turn to scoff and loudly. Joseph’s eyes close before he can let himself see red. Taking his time he breathes through his nose, as if trying to expel his anger, but it’s clear he’s growing just as irritated as you in return.  
“It is by God’s grace you are still alive, that you were sent here, all of this isn't just a coincidence, it’s your destiny, your path.” It’s a harder tone from him now and your temper dims somewhat, if only to continue bathing before being kicked around again. You, sadly, need the rest of your fingers for scrubbing yourself clean. You massage soap into your face, roughly smudging suds across your face, the running water a much better background noise than the crackling of the radio, or heavy hearted silence, even Joseph’s hellish hymns can’t compare. You tilt your head up to rinse and once the soap around your lips is gone you resume your conversation.  
“I don't know,” you spit some stray water out, the taste of your last meal not and pungent on your tongue. You feel a lot less weighed down after the shower, braver even, “Seems to me being your child has proven pretty fatal-”

“Deputy.” It’s back to that hard, harsh tone. He’s warning you. He should be, you think, if he knew how pissed you were at him breaking your fucking finger. Indignation grips your lungs and sharpens your tongue.   
“I mean, Faith, Jacob, John, not great ends, even the peggies.” You hear the footsteps as he advances, can feel the breath on your neck, hot and deep. Getting plenty worked up.  
“That’s. Enough.” It’s never enough, not for you. Not after being tormented, choked, broken, stripped, denied so many basic things that you wonder if you really deserve all this torture? Your teeth pierce your tongue, but you can’t hold back any longer, he needed you alive and you could turn this tide.

“I thought so too, but then you told me about your baby and how you snuffed her in her fucking cri-”   
You don’t expect the gunshot. It deafens you, it’s so close, you’ve never been more still yet so shaken. You’re frozen, but your knees feel clumsy as they shudder. A bell like sound rings out as the shell scatters away from the hole in the concrete, right between your legs. You feel the heat of the barrel radiating on your lower back, so close to touching you, but he doesn't press it forward, leaves you to squirm. Joseph’s angry breaths behind you drag on and on, your nerves are frayed more and more till he turns on his heel, the sound of his boot squeaking on the wet floor your indication. You hear him cock the gun again, but he keeps walking. You’re unaware you’re gasping for breath until the shell of the bullet stills and it’s just the water and footsteps that fill the ambience. You hear the ragged inhales coming from your gaping mouth, fixed in opened horror. Choked and pitiful breathes; they sound as much a struggle as they feel, your rib-cage appears like it’s shrunk three sizes too small, bones stabbing into your lungs and heart if the sensation is anything to go by.

“Kitchen after you’re done. Then we talk.” His anger is muted, but the order stands tall as the sound of boots on concrete become quieter.   
Your knees shake too much from you to stand, all too soon you’re falling sideways to sit on the shower grid, back pressed against the wall. The neat hole made by the shot captures your attention, beside the hole the dry silhouettes of where your feet had been, an inch away, melt away to dark wet concrete, the hole refusing to budge in the downpour. How close it was to your leg, your back, so much of you he could have just targeted, but changed his mind and you didn't see him. The heat of the shot. 

With shaking hands you help yourself back up. Among the fragrance of soap lingers something more potent. Heat washes over the inside of your thigh and you cover your mouth from vocalising any more crying. It was urine that had warmed your thighs. Shame washes over you despite the reasoning, knowing the fear and tension you’d faced. You grab the soap one more time, choosing to bite down on your wrist to stifle chest heaving weeping, you go about washing one more time.   
Fear hit you deeper than the shame, but you couldn't go in with red, bloodshot eyes and smelling of piss, you remember, for just a second Jacob’s face. Cull the herd. It haunts you in that second. If this was Jacob and not Joseph? You have little doubt that Jacob would miss. Rinsing your face under the cold water you calmed yourself as best you could, as best as anyone can after nearly being shot at point blank range.

You had a feeling this discussion was going to go one way. Joseph had proven his drive to go to the extreme, far better than you’d been able to, you knew the man he was, but you didn't expect it down here. Would he kill you and leave himself along for years?   
You moved out of the spray, turning the knob off, and taking a towel from one of the hooks. Glancing at the hole in the floor one last time you wondered if you were willing to die for this, your pride, your morals? Or if you wanted to just get this over with. Admitting Joseph could control you with a single weapon was not something you liked to confess. For now you wouldn't admit it, not aloud, anyway.  
For now, you would see how far Joseph could stray from his doctrine and pretend you had an inkling of control, but you know you don’t, even Joseph knows. It is a wise father that knows his own child and as Joseph waits, seated at the kitchen table, he knows you’ll get used to this. Survival of the fittest Jacob had warned, and Joseph finds himself agreeing after so long.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next update should be next sunday guys!   
> Also! Let me know if you'd like my tumblr to keep up to date with my writing/ update schedule! 
> 
> also to cover my ass i dont endorse any abuse in real relationships, or support non consenting partners or non consensual fear play/ gunplay. Fiction is all about consent and exploring those boundaries in a safe place so enjoy yall!!


	3. Turning point

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's gotten too much so quickly, for both of you this is becoming hell rather than any Eden. So it's time to compromise, time to make things a little brighter whether you like it or not.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so im still alive and so is the fic! im just having a bitch of a life atm, so writing hasnt been my number one priority since it doesn't bring in the money. my laptop is also broken the cooling fan is screwed and i dont have enough to repair it and hhhhh yeah that kinda life but heres a short as fuck chapter anyway

A blue hue settles over the kitchen thanks to the fish tank's glow. There’s so little light compared to the rest of the bunker, it’s like walking into night from day, probably the closest you’ll ever get to the real deal anymore anyway. 

 

You remember, one of the first times you’d managed to snatch a base away from peggies and how’d you dealt with a bear problem. Down by Henbane river and the rest of that drug addled region of Faith’s, hunting down the last animal to it’s cave. How you’d watched the daylight drain away to darkness, the stench of animal musk and fresh gore, and how two pinpricks of reflective eyes pierced through the inky blackness before your own vision could even try adjusting to the dark. With it’s claws and teeth ready to rend you to pieces you had enough sense to know you wouldn't last long, not in darkness, so, you did what any smart hunter would have done; shot it in the face and lured it out of it’s home, made it fight on your home turf, and in the daylight. You got lucky that you managed to actually hit the bear, lucky enough to not trip in the dark when you’d bolted in the other direction, luckier still how Boomer was covering your ass when you needed to reload. You came out of that fight unscathed, however that luck is nowhere in sight now, not when Joseph sits at the dining table, legs spread and slouched shoulders. You wonder if there’s anything within the husk of the man. He stares at the wall, perhaps even through it, seemingly blank, but his hand rests on the gun atop the table, finger tips stroking the metal as though it’s the only thing grounding him.

 

He reminds you of that bear. The eyes blissed out, too far gone, now looking akin to those pale baby-blues hauntingly staring into nothingness. A stilled predator was always a dangerous one, one ready to pounce in an instant. You’d be foolish to dub him anything else in his unstable state. Even if you’d been the one to provoke him, you remind yourself while cradling your numb, swelling hand, fighting wouldn't end well today, not when he was attached to a gun and you’d been ‘set free’ for only the better part of half an hour. A prisoner without chains becomes much more difficult to contain. Your gaze lingers on the pistol before flicking to Joseph’s facial expression. A dead prisoner was easier, you warn yourself, trying to swallow down any barbed remarks. The man wasn't beyond murder, but with the possibility of the two of you being the only ones left alive within a considerable distance you wondered if that made his temper waver at all, if he still was capable of ending you?  
“Sit down.” You almost miss the order, it’s unsettlingly calm despite the panic building in your throat and the tension in the air. You’re too occupied trying to figure out his next move to be in the moment. A warning whispers in your head again, more urgent, trying to predict a broken man would only end in tears. Not being one step ahead makes your frustration boil. You didn't want to just take orders, not for seven years. You wet your dry lips and swallow the lump developing in your throat. When was the last time you’d had a decent drink? The stinging that comes from your parched throat says ‘too long’. You should have drank the shower water. 

 

“Joseph, I need to set my fingers.” You speak quiet, slow, making sure he takes in what you say despite his vacant eyes. He doesn't even look at you.  
“Later. Right now I need you to take a seat.”   
Silence after he denies you. It spans for too long, your tongue feels sluggish as you feel yourself losing the will to protest, warning sirens in your head causing clenching in your abdomen, but you have to try.  
“If I don’t-”   
“Why don’t you just fucking listen and sit the fuck down!” His fist slams on the table and you flinch hard from the bang, your eyes screw closed, your hands coming up to block, as if they’ll prevent any blows in their pitiful state. 

 

Nothing. Breathing, harsh, and quick, but nothing else. You open your eyes slowly. His body is sprung tight and facing you, eyes no longer empty, his gaze is hostility and fire, and it dares you to run, but your limbs are locked up; you wish it was from having atrophied muscles from the past weeks, but it’s from fear. You hate it. You hate him. 

 

You take a seat, slow and careful, watching him heave in deep breathes opposite you. You realise, frayed nerves even more vexed at the connection, but that Joseph reminds you of John in that moment. How he’d pushed over the tool bench, that burst of anger, the unpredictable danger at being refused.   
Fight or flight is begging you to run or turn the table over onto him, but being injured you know how well that would go. None of the rooms lock apart from the goddamned already locked workshop and you don't have the keys. So you sit there ready for whatever excuses or demands he’s going to make.

 

“Thank you.” He visually calms and deflates, a hand brushing the loose hair back from his forehead. Through it all his hand has stayed glued to that fucking gun.  
“That wasn't so difficult, was it?” You bite your cheek to halt a testy reply. Joseph looks down to the table, eyes slowly moving to the gun before returning them to the space between you. He heaves a sigh and the dark circles under his eyes seem deeper than they have any right to be.  
“My brother, John, he used fear to mask his own. Always trying to gain control when he couldn't accept the Lord’s way...and this is the Lord’s way.” He mutters to himself before grasping the gun and releasing the magazine, holding the ammo in one hand, while placing the gun back on the table in between the both of you. There’s a storm of thoughts as you’ve been watching him. From the fear of taking a bullet to noticing that there should still be one live round in that gun he’s just put down. Your eyes practically follow the silver of the handgun as if hypnotised. 

 

Joseph knows exactly what he’s doing. He knows that you won’t settle, not until you have proof that this was meant to be. This is the only way he believes you’ll see.   
“Everyone of us should be reminded how very alone we are when we indulge in sin and live without the faith that keeps the devil from our door. I forgot this, I forgot my own words, Deputy. We...have taken from each other, greatly so,” Joseph looks toward your hand. There’s regret in him, regret that he let his own wrath take over him, regret that he questioned God’s will. No one else survived the crash apart from the two of you, how could he deny such an obvious sign? God had laid his plans bare and who was his prophet to refuse them? 

 

“We have.” You breathe quietly, he’s shocked at your agreement, but doesnt show it as he watches your downcast eyes.   
It’d be foolish to disagree, plus he had a point, you’d taken his family and his empire, he’d taken your friends, your family. 

“And yet I still take from you. I take your freedom,” he gestures with his hand to your injury. “I have a...proposition for you, a deal.” you narrow your eyes at him, but curiosity gets the better of you.  
“Being?”   
“We are together for seven years, at least, that is indisputable,” you nod “in that time we survive, we have a ceasefire, and we wait till we’re in the land of angels to restart this holy war, if you so wish.” You trade harsh stares as if trying to see each other’s intentions.  
“You won’t hurt me? Interrogate me? Deny me meals?”   
“No, none of that.” You narrow your eyes.  
“Convert me?” Joseph pauses at the question. His clenches and opens his hand repeatedly for a minute before replying.   
“I won’t enforce it.” He finally gives.   
“You think I’ll just naturally convert? After everything?”   
“Greater miracles have happened, Deputy.” His answer has you scoffing and furrowing your brows, but at least it was a step up from the weeks of forced religious babble. 

 

You think.   
“And what do you want?”  
It can’t have been that simple, he had to want something else, at least demand the same you’d asked of him. It wasn't exactly a hidden secret that you’d planned his death for months, hunting down each Seed. Joseph simply shook his head.  
“I’m content.”   
“You trust me enough to not try and kill you?” Joseph has the gall to laugh, it’s low and husky, but he still looks amused.   
“Don’t you remember, Deputy? God will not let you take me,” he pushes the gun from the middle of the table in front of you “but you can certainly try.” 

 

Your good hand moves for the gun faster than anything you’ve ever done before. You’re a sheriff's deputy, you’ve been through training for years, handled guns like you were born for the shooting range. Whitehorse’s pride, the rookie for only a few weeks, and yet...when that gun jams and denies you the shot aimed at Joseph’s head, you feel like nothing in front of a God. Joseph stands to take the gun from you, frozen as you are, and points it at the wall, a single shot ringing out as he squeezes the trigger. Something inside you echoes as it breaks, just like the cracking of the concrete. Tears well in your eyes. Joseph only smiles, just like the one he'd given you when he'd brought you down here to hell.   
“Oh, Deputy, I told you.” Joseph sighs placing the gun back on the table as you fall limply back into your seat. 

Everything feels lost.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Im not sure when ill next be able to update, but know this isnt getting abandoned any time soon its just gonna be slow. i gotta look for a job and pay rent first before this side project SADLY


End file.
